Vicious. Kevin O'Brien
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black after that first cluster of trees on the edge of the woods.
She was a city girl. She wasn’t used to all this darkness and quiet. She’d never felt so alone in all her life.
Downstairs, the screen door slammed in the kitchen.
It gave her a start. “Leo? Jordan?” she called, stepping out to the narrow hallway. “Is that you, guys?”
No answer.
Maybe she wasn’t so alone after all.
It was too soon for them to be back from the hot spring already. They’d left only a half hour ago.
She crept to the top of the stairs and glanced down. She could see only part of the living room and a bit of the kitchen. Moira wasn’t sure, but she thought she noticed a shadow sweep across that Spice Rack–patterned wall in the kitchen. A chill raced through her.
“Guys?” she called again, her voice quivering. She listened for a moment, but heard nothing. “Dave? Dave, I think I hear someone downstairs….” She felt a bit stupid, but if someone had broken in, she didn’t want them thinking she was alone. “Dave, maybe you should check it out….”
Moira paused, but still didn’t hear any movement down there.
Retreating to the bedroom, she grabbed her cell phone off the bureau, but then she realized it was useless. Who would she have called anyway? The police? She wasn’t positive she had an intruder, not yet.
Glancing around the bedroom, Moira spotted a fireplace set attached to the potbellied stove. She grabbed the poker and tiptoed back to the top of the stairs again. She saw the shadow flutter across the kitchen wall once more. It wasn’t just her imagination.
Slowly, Moira crept down the stairs, the poker clutched in her fist. She winced every time a step creaked. If this was Leo and Jordan playing some kind of joke on her, she’d kill them. This wasn’t funny, not one bit.
Her heart racing, she hesitated at the bottom of the stairs. At last, she peeked around the corner into the kitchen. She noticed a couple of moths fluttering near the ceiling light. Moira turned and studied their shadows on the Spice Rack wall. She let out a tiny laugh.
But she couldn’t quite relax, not just yet. She glanced over her shoulder at the empty living room. With the poker still ready, she ventured back into the kitchen and gazed out the screen door. She didn’t see anyone. But a candy wrapper drifted across the back stoop. Moira squinted at it: a Three Musketeers wrapper.
Stepping back, she closed the kitchen door and locked it. That was when she noticed the dirt footprints on the kitchen floor. Were they there before? Or had someone just made them a few minutes ago—when he’d come in from those woods?
She tried to determine where the footprints were headed, but the dirt marks faded in the middle of the kitchen—about halfway to the basement door, which was open.
That door had been closed earlier; Moira was almost certain of it.
“Shit,” she whispered. Paralyzed, she stared at the darkness beyond the open doorway and those first few steps down. The poker shook in her sweaty, trembling hand.
Moira’s breathing grew heavier as she started toward the cellar stairs. She didn’t see a light switch near the basement door, so she reached past the doorway and felt around for a switch on the wall. She found it and turned on the light. “Who’s down there?” she demanded.
Slowly she descended the stairs, but only a few steps. The place was unfinished and dirty—with cobwebs between exposed pipes running along the ceiling. There was a dust- and lint-covered washer and dryer, and a laundry sink. Garden equipment, collapsed folding patio chairs, a big, blue plastic kiddy pool, and two bicycles that looked broken leaned against one wall. There was a workbench, cluttered with tools, and a couple of old paint cans. In the corner, where a ceiling light was out, stood the furnace and a hot-water tank. She couldn’t tell if anyone was hiding back there or not. She noticed another door, which was closed. It looked like it might be a closet or a storage room. She didn’t want to go down any farther and check.
Suddenly, she heard a noise above her. The floorboards were creaking. Moira glanced up and saw a shadow move across the cellar doorway. She told herself it was probably those damn moths again—but she couldn’t be sure. If it was an intruder, he could switch off the light down here. Any moment now, she could be helpless, swallowed up in darkness.
Upstairs, a door shut, and Moira jumped. It was too far away to be the kitchen door. “Who’s up there?” she yelled.
No response. But there was more noise. It sounded like they were closer.
Biting her lip, she remained frozen on the stairs. “Goddamn it, who’s up there?”
Someone started pounding on the back door. Moira recoiled at the sound. “Oh, Jesus,” she whispered, tightly clutching the fireplace poker.
She heard the doorknob rattling, and then a muted voice: “Moira! Moira, are you in there?”
It sounded like Jordan. Catching her breath, she raced back up the stairs and saw him on the other side of the window in the kitchen door. He and Leo were wet and shirtless. Leo slouched against his friend as if he were half dead. Jordan pounded on the door again. “Moira, c’mon, let us in!”
She hurried to the door, unlocked it, and swung it open. “My God, what happened?”
“He needs some juice,” Jordan said. Helping Leo into the kitchen, he left their shirts and the bath towels in a heap on the back stoop. “C’mon, buddy.” He sat Leo down at the kitchen table.
Leo appeared dazed. He struggled to talk, but no words came out.
Moira set the poker on the counter and then ran to the refrigerator. Pulling out a carton of orange juice, she opened it and took it to Leo. But he was in too much of a stupor to reach for it. Jordan grabbed the carton instead. “Thanks,” he said. Sitting down next to his friend, he put the open end of the juice container to Leo’s mouth. “C’mon, drink this….”
Moira hovered over them, uncertain what to do. She knew about Leo’s diabetes, but had never been with him when he’d had an episode. She watched the orange juice spill past Leo’s lips and run down his neck to his bare chest. He was shaking.
“Swallow it, buddy, c’mon.” Jordan tipped his friend’s head back and tried to pour the juice down his throat. “Damn, we should have eaten first,” he grumbled. “I wasn’t thinking about his sugar levels. We just got into the spring, and he started to feel woozy….”
Leo started choking and coughing. Jordan got sprayed in the face with some orange juice. He pulled back the carton for a moment. “Okay, ready to take some?” he asked. As soon as Leo stopped coughing, Jordan put the orange juice carton to his lips again.
Leo drank, and his hands eventually came up over Jordan’s. “Atta boy,” Jordan whispered.
Moira fetched a dish towel and wetted one end. She held it to Leo’s forehead for a moment, then dabbed at the spilt orange juice on his chin, neck, chest, and torso. He stopped drinking for a moment. “Thanks,” he gasped. He tried to smile. “Jesus, this is embarrassing.”
“Hey, compared to your attempt at the Macarena at the homecoming dance, this is nothing,” Moira replied, trying to smile.
Leo started to laugh.
“Keep drinking,” Jordan told him. He patted Leo’s shoulder and then stood up.
Moira turned to him. “You got some orange juice on you, too,” she said, dabbing at his face with the dish towel.
“Thanks,” Jordan said, smiling at her. “I got it.” He took the dish towel from her and kissed her hand. Then he wiped off his face.
Unconsciously, Moira touched her hand where he’d kissed it. She noticed Jordan’s lean, muscular physique—and realized his pants were still unfastened in front. He must have put them on in